


red rain

by wasneeliw



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Red Wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:56:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasneeliw/pseuds/wasneeliw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i.  petyr's final chapter </p><p>ii. the wolf and the mockingbird after the red wedding</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> comments greatly appreciated :)

i.

Robyn Aryns's voice had never sounded so piercing to one's ears. His shrill squeals echoed though the tower as heavy robes flapped about his short pumping legs. Sansa watched helplessly as the a man in Lannister crimson thrust his sword at the little lord. She squeezed her eyes shut. The steel never hit its mark. The man was sailing into the blue beyond before he knew what hit him, and even Sansa, from her elevated vantage point had not seen Petyr emerge from the shadows. 

With an unceremonious swipe, he shoved the boy into the cover of the stairwell, out of open sight. "Stay!" he shouted at him, as one would command a dog. The boy nodded, quivering in the half-light, as Baelish stood to face the crimson tide.

Sansa was speechless. Had he forgotten how to play the game? It made absolutely no sense, why give up his advantage, why lose the element of surprise over a whiny overgrown toddler? Surly even this pawn wasn't worth his head. Better yet, why not silver-tongue his way out of this mess? He always had. Yet there he was, Petyr Baelish, engaged in open combat. There was nothing deceptive about his blade, it sliced through what it met, leaving red tongues flowing from new openings. No witty japes, philosophical mutterings or sharp quips as Valyrian steel met flesh and flesh met death. This was unbridled chaos. At least to the Lannister men. Sansa knew better. Every movement was calculated, no extraneous flourishes, just tiny killing strokes at vital points, fingers as deft as the mind. The clunky castle-forged swords were near useless in close-quarter fighting, as the battle-worn soldiers soon learnt. It was a flurry of red movement, a mess of cloaks and blood. A painter amidst paint, dagger splaying a red impasto on the marble floor to the chorus of grown men's screams.

Just as Petyr was gutting the last of the stranglers, a sinewy, cold-looking one spotted Robyn peeking out from behind the stairs. Fool boy! She thought, horrified, as he advanced towards him, eyes glittering, blade in hand. Robyn did the only thing he knew how and Petyr, being neither deaf nor slow, instinctively lunged for the assailant. Abruptly, the red cape whirl round and caught Petyr with the end of his sword. Robyn fell silent and Sansa's heart stilled as his body jerked. He didn't make a sound.  
She felt a queer coldness growing. Somehow, Petyr's blade found the man's neck and he was dead before he hit the floor.

Petyr collapsed heavily beside him.

"Uncle Petyr? Uncle Petyr?" Sansa distantly heard Little Robyn's quivering voice as he shook him with all the force a small seven-year-old frame could muster. Baelish did not stir. Sansa didn't know when her feet decided to ignore her pleas to flee. She was beside him in an instant, hands darting to remove the sword, smothering the gaping chest wound with the fabric of her delicate lacy dress, applying pressure as she had seen Maester Luwin do countless times before, as she shouted at Robyn to get the Maester of the Eyrie. The white cloth flowers were blooming crimson under her hands. Even now he bleeds Lannister colours, she thought darkly, but so had her father, she recalled. She gazed at his pale face, the face of a man who had more blood on his hands than Joffrey ever did. It was now that she saw, really saw, that his eyes were Tully blue.

They were empty and glazed over, devoid of any menace or unfathomable schemes, so utterly uncharacteristic of him that her hand trembled as she lay her fingers lightly above his collar, with something akin to concern. His pulse was a fluttering little thing. Petyr grunted weakly at the touch. Just a little more pressure on the windpipe and a few minutes or seconds, whatever it took.... He can't hurt you now.

 

Given the opportunity, what do we do to those who have hurt those we love?


	2. Chapter 2

ii. 

He came back for her though she never came back for him. 

It was red that led him to them. He was no stranger to death (it had caressed him in boyhood from navel to collarbone and had taken his heart as tribute) and so he waded amongst them with the ease of a man strolling through a Godswood; returning home. The flotilla of bloated bodies appeared bobbing like little meatballs in beet soup, he thought abstractly, and felt no remorse. Remorse in itself now seemed like an abstract concept to him. He wondered with mild curiosity just how he had grown so cold. 

He was as sure-footed in the water as on land. He felt drawn to her, as he had always been, only she was taken from him; taken by family, duty and honour. Words that rolled off the tongue with practised ease. Words were his currency; he knew their worth and their worthlessness. Lies are only afforded the power you afford them. 

Her beauty was unblemished, unmolested. The skin was puffed but porcelain, the crimson hair the flaring sun, unextinguished, unextinguishable. Her scent was different, but he was above material scruples, he supposed living in sheep shit for years had been a baptism of sorts, arduous but cleansing, not unlike drowning. It seemed fitting that they were together now as in childhood, in the river of Riverrun, Tully colours surrounding them, spreading banners of red upon fluid blue. She was facedown; she'd always been the better swimmer, always able to hold her breath for the longest time. He joined her, as always. His finely embroidered linens were already saturated, he had had them made for her eyes, now unseeing, and so it mattered not whether he was dressed as a little boy of the fingers or a high lord in his finest finery, he guessed. He held her for a long while, her back to his chest, sharing comfort, sharing warmth. His face was wet but so was hers. He didn't turn her around, didn't need to see her face, her slender neck... he knew every detail, knew every dip and rise, every incline, every trench, didn't need any reminders, none at all. Nothing had changed, he knew, he knew with certainty. 

He was Petyr who loved but never lost. Brandon was dead - and he was not; he had never lost the duel, not truly. Cat was dead – or so he'd been told, but he could feel her flesh flush against his (both equally cold); and he knew then that he had never lost her either, not truly.


End file.
